THOSE, and I am one of them, who find even a small ordinary sized mole
disgusting, would probably have died of disgust if they had seen the giant
mole that a few years back was observed in the neighborhood of one of our
villages, which achieved a certain transitory celebrity on account of the
incident. Today it has long since sunk back into oblivion again, and in
that only shares the obscurity of the whole incident, which has remained
quite inexplicable, but which people, it must be confessed, have also taken
no great pains to explain; and as a result of an incomprehensible apathy
in those very circles that should have concerned themselves with it, and
who in fact have shown enthusiastic interest in far more trifling matters,
the affair has been forgotten without ever being adequately investigated.
In any case, the fact that the village could not be reached by the railroad
was no excuse. Many people came from great distances out of pure curiosity,
there were even foreigners among them; it was only those who should have
shown something more than curiosity that refrained from coming. In fact,
if a few quite simple people, people whose daily work gave them hardly
a moment of leisure if these people had not quite disinterestedly taken
up the affair, the rumor of this natural phenomenon would probably have
never spread beyond the locality. Indeed, rumor itself, which usually cannot
be held within bounds, was actually sluggish in this case; if it had not
literally been given a shove it would not have spread. But even that was
no valid reason for re fusing to inquire into the affair; on the contrary
this second phenomenon should have been investigated as well. Instead the
old village schoolmaster was left to write the sole account in black and
white of the incident, and though he was an excellent man in his own profession,
neither his abilities nor his equipment made it possible for him to produce
an exhaustive description that could be used as a foundation
by others, far less, therefore, an actual explanation of the occurrence.
His little pamphlet was printed, and a good many copies were sold to visitors
to the village about that time; it also received some public recognition,
but the teacher was wise enough to perceive that his fragmentary labors,
in which no one supported him, were basically without value. If in spite
of that he did not relax in them, and made the question his lifework, though
it naturally became more hopeless from year to year, that only shows on
the one hand how powerful an effect the appearance of the giant mole was
capable of producing, and on the other how much laborious effort and fidelity
to his convictions may be found in an old and obscure village schoolmaster.
But that he suffered deeply from the cold attitude of the recognized authorities
is proved by a brief brochure with which he followed up his pamphlet several
years later, by which time hardly anyone could remember what it was all
about. In this brochure he complained of the lack of understanding that
he had encountered in people where it was least to be expected; complaints
that carried conviction less by the skill with which they were expressed
than by their honesty. Of such people he said very appositely: "It is not
1, but they, who talk like old village schoolmasters." And among other
things he adduced the pronouncement of a scholar to whom he had gone expressly
about his affair. The name of the scholar was not mentioned, but from various
circumstances we could guess who it was. After the teacher had managed
with great difficulty to secure admittance, he perceived at once from the
very way in which he was greeted that the savant had already acquired a
rooted prejudice against the matter. The absent-mindedness with which he
listened to the long report which the teacher, pamphlet in hand, delivered
to him, can be gauged from a remark that he let fall after a pause for
ostensible reflection: "The soil in your neighborhood is particularly black
and rich. Consequently it provides the moles with particularly rich nourishment,
and so they grow to an unusual size."
"But not to such a size as that!" exclaimed the teacher, and
he measured off two yards on the wall, somewhat exaggerating the length
of the mole in exasperation. "Oh, and why not?" replied the scholar, who
obviously looked upon the whole affair as a great joke. With this verdict
the teacher had to return to his home. He tells how his wife and six children
were waiting for him by the roadside in the snow, and how he had to admit
to them the final collapse of his hopes.
When I read of the scholar's attitude toward the old man I was
not yet acquainted with the teacher's pamphlet. But I at once resolved
myself to collect and correlate all the information I could discover regarding
the case. If I could not employ physical force against the scholar, I could
at least write a defense of the teacher, or more exactly, of the good intentions
of an honest but uninfluential man. I admit that I rued this decision later,
for I soon saw that its execution was bound to involve me in a very strange
predicament. On the one hand my own influence was far from sufficient to
effect a change in learned or even public opinion in the teacher's favor,
while on the other the teacher was bound to notice that I was less concerned
with his main object, which was to prove that the giant mole had actually
been seen, than to defend his honesty, which must naturally be self-evident
to him and in need of no defense. Accordingly, what was bound to happen
was this: I would be misunderstood by the teacher, though I wanted to collaborate
with him, and instead of helping him I myself would probably require support,
which was most unlikely to appear. Besides, my decision would impose a
great burden of work upon me. If I wanted to convince people I could not
invoke the teacher, since he himself had not been able to convince them.
To read his pamphlet could only have led me astray, and so I refrained
from reading it until I should have finished my own labors. More, I did
not even get in touch with the teacher. True, he heard of my inquiries
through intermediaries, but he did not know whether I was working for him
or against him. In fact he probably assumed the latter, though he denied
it later on; for I have proof of the fact that he put various obstacles
in my way. It was quite easy for him to do that, for of course I was compelled
to undertake anew all the inquiries he had already made, and so he could
always steal a march on me
But that was the only objection that could be justly made to my method,
an unavoidable reproach, but one that was palliated by the caution and
self abnegation with which I drew my conclusions. But for the rest my pamphlet
was quite uninfluenced by the teacher, perhaps on this point, indeed, I
showed all too great a scrupulosity; from my words one might have thought
nobody had ever inquired into the case before, and I was the first to interrogate
those who had seen or heard of the mole, the first to correlate the evidence,
the first to draw conclusions. When later I read the schoolmaster's pamphlet
it had a very circumstantial title: "A mole, larger in size than ever seen
before "I found that we actually did not agree on certain important points,
though we both believed we had proved our main point, namely, the existence
of the mole. These differences prevented the establishment of the friendly
relations with the schoolmaster that I had been looking forward to in spite
of everything. On his side there developed a feeling almost of hostility.
True, he was always modest and humble in his bearing toward me, but that
only made his real feelings the more obvious. In other words, he was of
the opinion that I had merely damaged his credit, and that my belief that
I had been or could be of assistance to him was simplicity at best, but
more likely presumption or artifice. He was particularly fond of saying
that all his previous enemies had shown their hostility either not at all,
or in private, or at most by word of mouth, while I had considered it necessary
to have my censures straightway published. Moreover, the few opponents
of his who had really occupied themselves with the subject, if but superficially,
had at least listened to his, the schoolmaster's, views before they had
given expression to their own: while I, on the strength of unsystematically
assembled and in part misunderstood evidence, had published conclusions
which, even if they were correct as regarded the main point, must evoke
incredulity, and among the public no less than the educated. But the faintest
hint that the existence of the mole was unworthy of credence was the worst
thing that could happen in this case.
To these reproaches, veiled as they were, I could easily have found
an answer for instance, that his own pamphlet achieved the very summit
of the incredible it was less easy, however, to make headway against his
continual suspicion, and that was the reason why I was very reserved in
my dealings with him. For in his heart he was convinced that I wanted to
rob him of the fame of being the first man publicly to vindicate the mole.
Now of course he really enjoyed no fame whatever, but only an absurd notoriety
that was shrinking more and more, and for which I had certainly no desire
to compete. Besides, in the foreword to my pamphlet I had expressly declared
that the teacher must stand for all time as the discoverer of the mole
and he was not even that and that only my sympathy with his unfortunate
fate had spurred me on to write. "It is the aim of this pamphlet" so I
ended up all too melodramatically, but it corresponded with my feelings
at that time "to help in giving the schoolmaster's book the wide publicity
it deserves. If I succeed in that, then may my name, which I regard as
only transiently and indirectly associated with this question, be blotted
from it at once." Thus I disclaimed expressly any major participation in
the affair; it was almost as if I had foreseen in some manner the teacher's
unbelievable reproaches. Nevertheless he found in that very passage a handle
against me, and I do not deny that there was a faint show of justice in
what he said or rather hinted; indeed I was often struck by the fact that
he showed almost a keener penetration where I was concerned than he had
done in his pamphlet. For he maintained that my foreword was double-faced.
If I was really concerned solely to give publicity to his pamphlet, why
had I not occupied myself exclusively with him and his pamphlet, why had
I not pointed out its virtues, its irrefutability why had I not confined
myself to insisting on the significance of the discovery and making that
clear, why had I instead tackled the discovery itself, while completely
ignoring the pamphlet? Had not the discovery been made already? Was there
still anything left to be done in that direction? But if I really thought
that it was necessary for me to make the discovery all over again, why
had I disassociated myself from the discovery so solemnly in my foreword?
One might put that down to false modesty, but it was something worse. I
was trying to belittle the discovery, I was drawing attention to it merely
for the purpose of depreciating it, while he on the other hand had inquired
into and finally established it. Perhaps the affair had sunk somewhat into
desuetude; now I had made a noise about it again, but at the same time
I had made the schoolmaster's position more difficult than ever. What did
he care whether his honesty was vindicated or not? All that he was concerned
with was the thing itself, and with that alone. But I was only of disservice
to it, for I did not understand it, I did not prize it at its true value,
I had no real feeling for it. It was infinitely above my intellectual capacity.
He sat before me and looked at me, his old wrinkled face quite composed,
and yet this was what he was thinking. Yet it was not true that he was
only concerned with the thing itself: actually he was very greedy for fame,
and wanted to make money out of the business too, which, however, considering
his large family, was very understandable. Nevertheless my interest in
the affair seemed so trivial compared with his own, that he felt he could
claim to be completely disinterested without deviating very seriously from
the truth. And indeed my inner doubts refused to be quite calmed by my
telling myself that the man's reproaches were really due to the fact that
he clung to his mole, so to speak, with both hands, and was bound to look
upon anyone who laid even a finger on it as a traitor. For that was not
true; his attitude was not to be explained by greed, or at any rate by
greed alone, but rather by the touchiness which his great labors and their
complete unsuccess had bred in him. Yet even his touchiness did not explain
everything. Perhaps my interest in the affair was really too trivial. The
schoolmaster was used to lack of interest in strangers. He regarded it
as a universal evil, but no longer suffered from its individual manifestations.
Now a man had appeared who, strangely enough, took up the affair; and even
he did not understand it. Attacked from this side I can make no defense.
I am no zoologist; yet perhaps I would have thrown myself into the case
with my whole heart if I had discovered it; but I had not discovered it.
Such a gigantic mole is certainly a prodigy, yet one cannot expect the
continuous and undivided attention of the whole world to be accorded it,
particularly if its existence is not completely and irrefutably established,
and in any case it cannot be produced. And I admit too that even if I had
been the discoverer I would probably never have come forward so gladly
and voluntarily in defense of the mole as I had in that of the schoolmaster.
Now the misunderstanding between me and the schoolmaster would
probably have quickly cleared up if my pamphlet had achieved success. But
success was not forthcoming. Perhaps the book was not well enough written,
not persuasive enough; I am a businessman, it may be that the composition
of such a pamphlet was still further beyond my limited powers than those
of the teacher, though in the kind of knowledge required I was greatly
superior to him. Besides, my unsuccess may be explicable in other ways;
the time at which the pamphlet appeared may have been inauspicious. The
discovery of the mole, which had failed to penetrate to a wide public at
the time it took place, was not so long past on the one hand as to be completely
forgotten, and thus capable of being brought alive again by my pamphlet,
while on the other hand enough time had elapsed quite to exhaust the trivial
interest that had originally existed. Those who took my pamphlet at all
seriously told themselves, in that bored tone which from the first had
characterized the debate, that now the old useless labors on this wearisome
question were to begin all over again; and some even confused my pamphlet
with the schoolmasters In a leading agricultural journal appeared the following
comment, fortunately at the very end, and in small _ print: "The pamphlet
on the giant mole has once more been sent to us. Years ago we remember
having had a hearty laugh over it. Since then it has not become more intelligible,
nor we more hard of understanding. But we simply refuse to laugh at it
a second time. Instead, we would ask our teaching associations whether
more useful work cannot be found for our village schoolmasters than hunting
out giant moles." An unpardonable confusion of identity. They had read
neither the first nor the second pamphlet, and the two perfunctorily scanned
expressions, "giant mole" and "village schoolmaster," were sufficient for
these gentlemen, as representatives of publicly esteemed interest, to pronounce
on the subject. Against this attack measures might have been attempted
and with success, but the lack of understanding between the teacher and
myself kept me from venturing upon them. I tried instead to keep the review
from his knowledge as long as I could. But he very soon discovered it,
as I recognized from a sentence in one of his letters, in which he announced
his intention of visiting me for the Christmas holidays. He wrote: "The
world is full of malice, and people smooth the path for it," by which he
wished to convey that I was one of the malicious, but, not content with
my own innate malice, wished also to make the world's path smooth for it:
in other words, was acting in such a way as to arouse the general malice
and help it to victory. Well, I summoned the resolution I required, and
was able to await him calmly, and calmly greet him when he arrived, this
time a shade less polite in his bearing than usual; he carefully drew out
the journal from the breast pocket of his old-fashioned padded overcoat,
and opening it handed it to me. "I've seen it," I replied, handing the
journal back unread. "You've seen it," he said with a sigh; he had the
old teacher's habit of repeating the other person's answers. "Of course
I won't take this lying down!" he went on, tapping the journal excitedly
with his finger and glancing up sharply at me, as if I were of a different
mind; he certainly had some idea of what I was about to say, for I think
I have noticed, not so much from his words as from other indications, that
he often has a genuine intuition of my intentions, though he never yields
to them but lets himself be diverted. What I said to him I can set down
almost word for word, for I made a note of it shortly after our interview.
"Do what you like," I said, "our ways part from this moment. I fancy that
that is neither unexpected nor unwelcome news to you. The review in this
journal is not the real reason for my decision; it has merely finally confirmed
it. The real reason is this: originally I thought my intervention might
be of some use to you, while now I cannot but recognize that I have damaged
you in every direction. Why it has turned out so I cannot say; the causes
of success and unsuccess are always ambiguous; but don't look for the sole
explanation in my shortcomings. Consider: you too had the best intentions,
and yet, if one regards the matter objectively, you failed. I don't intend
it as a joke, for it would be a joke against myself, when I say that your
connection with me must unfortunately be counted among your failures. It
is neither cowardice nor treachery, if I withdraw from the affair now.
Actually it involves a certain degree of self renunciation; my pamphlet
itself proves how much I respect you personally, in a certain sense you
have become my teacher, and I have almost grown fond of the mole itself.
Nevertheless I have decided to step aside; you are the discoverer, and
all that I can do is to prevent you from gaining possible fame, while I
attract failure and pass it on to you. At least that is your own opinion.
Enough of that. The sole expiation that I can make is to beg your forgiveness
and, should you require it, to publish openly, that is, in this journal,
the admission I have just made to you."
These were my words; they were not entirely sincere, but what
was sincere in them was obvious enough. My explanation had the effect upon
him that I had roughly anticipated. Most old people have something deceitful,
something mendacious, in their dealings with people younger than themselves;
you live at peace with them, imagine you are on the best of terms with
them, know their ruling prejudices, receive continual assurances of amity,
take the whole thing for granted; and when something decisive happens and
those peaceful relations, so long nourished, should come into effective
operation, suddenly these old people rise before you like strangers, show
that they have deeper and stronger convictions, and now for the first time
literally unfurl their banner, and with terror you read upon it the new
decree. The reason for this terror lies chiefly in the fact that what the
old say now is really far more just and sensible than what they had said
before; it is as if even the self-evident had degrees of validity, and
their words now were more self-evident than every But the final deceit
that lies in their words consists in this, that at bottom they have always
said what they are saying now. I must have probed deeply into the schoolmaster,
seeing that his nest words did not entirely take me by surprise. "Child,"
he said, laying his hand on mine and patting it gently, "how did
you ever take it into your head to go into this affair? The very first
I heard of it I talked it over with my wife." He pushed his chair back
from the table, got up, spread out his arms, and stared at the floor, as
if his tiny little wife were standing there and he were speaking to her.
" 'We've struggled on alone,' I said to her, 'for many years; now, it seems,
a noble protector has risen for us in the city, a fine businessman, Mr.
So-and-so. We should congratulate ourselves, shouldn't we? A businessman
in the city isn't to be sniffed at; when an ignorant peasant believes us
and says so it doesn't help us, for what a peasant may say or do is of
no account; whether he says the old village schoolmaster is right, or spits
to show his contempt, the net result is the same. And if instead of one
peasant ten thousand should stand up for us, the result, if possible, would
only be still worse. A businessman in the city, on the other hand, that's
something else again; a man like that has connections, things he says in
passing, as it were, are taken up and repeated, new patrons interest themselves
in the question, one of them, it may be, remarks: You can learn even from
old village schoolmasters, and next day whole crowds of people are saying
it to one another, people you would never imagine saying such things, to
look at them. Next, money is found to finance the business, one gentleman
goes around collecting for it and the others shower subscriptions on him;
they decide that the village schoolmaster must be dragged from his obscurity;
they arrive, they don't bother about his external appearance, but take
him to their bosoms, and since his wife and children hang onto him, they
are taken along too. Have you ever watched city people? They chatter without
stopping. When there's a whole lot of them together you can hear their
chatter running from right to left and back again, and up and down, this
way and that. And so, chattering away, they push us into the coach, so
that we've hardly time to bow to everybody. The gentleman on the coachman's
seat puts his glasses straight, flourishes his whip, and off we go. They
all wave a parting greeting to the village, as if we were still there and
not sitting among them. The more impatient city people drive out in carriages
to meet us. As we approach they get up from their seats and crane
their necks. The gentleman who collected the money arranges everything
methodically and in order. When we drive into the city we are a long procession
of carriages. We think the public welcome is over; but it really only begins
when we reach our hotel. In a city an announcement attracts a great many
people. What interests one interests all the rest immediately. They take
their views from one another and promptly make those views their own. All
the people who haven't managed to drive out and meet us in carriages are
waiting in front of the hotel; others could have driven out, but they were
too self-conscious. They're waiting too. It's extraordinary, the way that
the gentleman who collected the money keeps his eye on everything and directs
everything."
I had listened coolly to him, indeed I had grown cooler and cooler
while he went on. On the table I had piled up all the copies of my pamphlet
in my possession. Only a few were missing, for during the past week I had
sent out a circular demanding the return of all the copies distributed,
and had received most of them back. True, from several quarters I had got
very polite notes saying that So-and-so could not remember having received
such a pamphlet, and that, if it had actually arrived, he was sorry to
confess that he must have lost it. Even that was gratifying; in my heart
I desired nothing better. Only one reader begged me to let him keep the
pamphlet as a curiosity, pledging himself, in accordance with the spirit
of my circular, to show it to no one for twenty years. The village teacher
had not yet seen my circular. I was glad that his words made it so easy
for me to show it to him. I could do that without anxiety in any case,
however, as I had drawn it up very circumspectly, keeping his interests
in mind the whole time. The crucial passage in the circular ran as follows:
"I do not ask for the return of the pamphlet because I retract in any way
the opinions defended there or wish them to be regarded as erroneous or
even undemonstrable on any point. My request has purely personal and moreover
very urgent grounds; but no conclusion whatever must be drawn from it as
regards my attitude to the whole matter. I beg to draw your particular
attention to this, and would be glad also if you would make the fact better
known."
For the time being I kept my hand over the circular and said:
"You reproach me in your heart because things have not turned out as you
hoped. Why do that? Don't let us embitter our last moments together. And
do try to see that, though you've made a discovery, it isn't necessarily
greater than every other discovery, and consequently the injustice you
suffer under any greater than other injustices. I don't know the ways of
learned societies, but I can't believe that in the most favorable circumstances
you would have been given a reception even remotely resembling the one
you seem to have described to your wife. While I myself still hoped that
something might come of my pamphlet, the most I expected was that perhaps
the attention of a professor might be drawn to our case, that he might
commission some young student to inquire into it, that this student might
visit you and check in his own fashion your and my inquiries once more
on the spot, and that finally, if the results seemed to him worth consideration
we must not forget that all young students are full of skepticism he might
bring out a pamphlet of his own in which your discoveries would be put
on a scientific basis. All the same, even if that hope had been realized
nothing very much would have been achieved. The student's pamphlet, supporting
such queer opinions, would probably be held up to ridicule. If you take
this agricultural journal as a sample, you can see how easily that may
happen; and scientific periodicals are still more ruthless in such matters.
And that's quite understandable; professors bear a great responsibility
toward themselves, toward science, toward posterity; they can't take every
new discovery to their bosoms straight away. We others have the advantage
of them there. But I'll leave that out of account and assume that the student's
pamphlet has found acceptance. What would happen next? You would probably
receive honorable mention, and that might perhaps benefit your profession
too; people would say: 'Our village schoolmasters have sharp eyes'; and
this journal, if journals have a memory or a conscience, would be forced
to make you a public apology; also some well intentioned professor
would be found to secure a scholarship for you; it's possible they might
even get you to come to the city, find a pOSt for you in some school, and
so give you a chance of using the scientific resources of a city so as
to improve yourself. But if I am to be quite frank, I think they would
content themselves with merely trying to do all this. They would summon
you and you would appear, but only as an ordinary petitioner like hundreds
of others, and not in solemn state; they would talk to you and praise your
honest efforts, but they would see at the same time that you were an old
man, that it was hopeless for anyone to begin to study science at such
an age, and moreover that you had hit upon your discovery more by chance
than by design, and had besides no ambition to extend your labors beyond
this one case. For these reasons they would probably send you back to your
village again. Your discovery, of course, would be carried further, for
it is not so trifling that, once having achieved recognition, it could
be forgotten again. But you would not hear much more about it, and what
you heard you would scarcely understand. Every new discovery is assumed
at once into the sum total of knowledge, and with that ceases in a sense
to be a discovery; it dissolves into the whole and disappears, and one
must have a trained scientific eye even to recognize it after that. For
it is related to fundamental axioms of whose existence we don't even know,
and in the debates of science it is raised on these axioms into the very
clouds. How can we expect to understand such things? Often as we listen
to some learned discussion we may be under the impression that it is about
your discovery when it is about something quite different, and the next
time, when we think it is about something else, and not about your discovery
at all, it may turn out to be about that and that alone.
"Don't you see that? You would remain in your village, you would
be able with the extra money to feed and clothe your family a little better;
but your discovery would be taken out of your hands, and without your being
able with any show of justice to object; for only in the city could it
be given its final seal. And people wouldn't be altogether ungrateful to
you, they might build a little museum on the spot where the discovery was
made, it would become one of the sights of the village, you would be given
the keys to keep, and, so that you shouldn't lack some outward token of
honor, they could give you a little medal to wear on the breast of your
coat, like those worn by attendants in scientific institutions. All this
might have been possible; but was it what you wanted?"
Without stopping to consider his answer he turned on me and said:
"And so that's what you wanted to achieve for me?"
"Probably," I said, "I didn't consider what I was doing carefully
enough at the time to be able to answer that clearly now. I wanted to help
you, but that was a failure, and the worst failure I have ever had. That's
why I want to withdraw now and undo what I've done as far as I'm able."
"Well and good," said the teacher, taking out his pipe and beginning
to fill it with the tobacco that he carried loose in all his pockets. "You
took up this thankless business of your own free will, and now of your
own free will you withdraw. So that's all right."
"I'm not an obstinate man," I said. "Do you find anything to
object to in my proposal?"
"No, absolutely nothing," said the schoolmaster, and his pipe
was already going. I could not bear the stink of his tobacco, and so I
rose and began to walk up and down the room. From previous encounters I
was used to the teacher's extreme taciturnity, and to the fact that in
spite of it he never seemed to have any desire to stir from my room once
he was in it. That had often disturbed me before. He wants something more,
I always thought at such times, and I would offer him money, which indeed
he invariably accepted. Yet he never went away before it suited his convenience.
Generally his pipe was smoked out by that time, then he would ceremoniously
and respectfully push his chair in to the table, make a detour around it,
seize his cane standing in the corner, press my hand warmly, and go. But
today his silent presence as he sat there was an actual torture to me.
When one has bidden a last farewell to someone, as I had done, a farewell
accepted in good faith, surely the mutual formalities that remain should
be got over as quickly as possible, and one should not burden one's host
purposelessly with one's silent presence. As I contemplated the stubborn
little old fellow from behind, while he sat at the table, it seemed an
impossible idea ever to show him the door.